Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hum of the Archives’ overhead lights was a familiar presence: a constant faintly buzzing, that seemed like the whisper of some unseen observer. You’d long ago grown used to it, just as you had the musty scent of old paper and dust that never quite faded, no matter how often Martin tried to spritz the air with lavender-scented cleaner. The Archives were never warm, exactly, but they were consistent. Predictable.

That morning, however, something was off.

You were seated at your usual desk in the dimly lit Archives, surrounded by ominously teetering stacks of statements. You had shrugged your cardigan closer around you maybe twenty minutes ago, chalking the goose bumps up to too much stillness, too much reading.

But then Martin shuffled in, bundled in a knit scarf that looked like it might have been made by a grandparent. He paused near your desk, blowing into his hands. “Is it just me,” he said, voice hushed in the cavernous quiet of the room, “or is it freezing in here?”

You looked up from the yellowing page of a 1996 statement you were half-heartedly annotating – something about a street musician who vanished mid-performance and shadowy figures seen through train windows – and frowned.

“Not just you,” you murmured, suddenly more aware of the draft curling around your ankles, of the slow, prickly cold that seeped in despite the layers and anchored itself to your spine.

“I swear it was warmer outside. Which is just…wrong.” he said, rubbing at his arms over his thick jumper.

You offered him a sympathetic look. “Maybe something’s wrong with the heating? It was rattling like crazy all day yesterday.”

You pushed back your chair and glanced over your shoulder. The radiator behind you, its hum usually too quiet to notice, was off. Not just cooling down, fully dead. You touched it with tentative fingers and jerked back with a hiss. Ice-cold.

You glared at the radiator as if it had offended you. “Bloody brilliant,” you muttered, hugging your arms around yourself.

Martin frowned, glancing down the hallway toward the back of the Archives, where the faint mechanical hum had always signaled the old building’s attempts at climate control. Now, the silence there seemed louder somehow. “I can try to find the control panel, see if anything’s tripped. Elias made me help the maintenance guy find it that one time. I’ll go check,” he said, pointing to the hallway. “You okay staying here?”

You smiled tightly and gave a mock salute. “I’ll try to hold down the fort.”

Martin gave a weak laugh and shuffled off, the sound of his footsteps fading as he disappeared down the corridor.

“Be careful,” you called after him, only half-joking. The Institute had a way of swallowing people up, even ones who knew its secrets. Or perhaps especially them.

You went back to your statement, and tried to ignore the cold, although your fingers were stiff on the keyboard. The chill was becoming harder to ignore. It was more than unpleasant, at this point it was fully consuming. You rubbed your hands together, exhaling onto your fingertips to chase away the stiffness. It helped for a moment, but it was like the chill lived in the very walls, seeping into the marrow of the Archives.

You glanced around the space. The assistants’ office, located in the Institute’s basement, was too large, too open, a hollowed-out chapel: silent, ancient, cold, and utterly indifferent to your suffering. The walls swallowed up every scrap of warmth as if they resented its presence, your own body warmth slipping away into the cracks of the walls, stolen by drafts that slid through like unseen hands. The rest of the Archives didn’t offer much visual comfort, rows of shelving, darkened corners where flickering bulbs had long since gone ignored. Even the ceiling seemed to loom, disapproving and cold.

You thought, not for the first time, about how clever Tim and Sasha had been to stay home today. Martin had mentioned something about Sasha having a cold, and Tim had a “remote meeting” that you suspected was an excuse to work in his pyjamas. Jealousy bloomed in your chest, half fond, half frustrated.

You found yourself glancing toward the doorway more often, hoping Martin would return soon.

It was nearly twenty minutes before he finally came back from the maintenance room.

He looked defeated, his scarf unraveling slightly, a smudge of something – dust? – on one cheek. “Yeah, it’s broken,” he said before you could ask. “I mean, I have no idea what I’m looking at, but nothing’s humming back there. I didn’t want to poke around too much, but I’m fairly sure it’s dead.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Facilities?”

“Called. Voicemail. Left a message, but who knows when they’ll get it. Or if they can even fix it at short notice, this place is practically Victorian, honestly.”

“Of course,” you muttered, shifting your legs beneath the desk and resisting the urge to tuck your feet up into your chair like a gremlin. “Why would a paranormal research institute be equipped for basic human needs?”

Martin snorted, then rubbed his hand over his forehead. His face was pink from the cold, but his eyes were soft with worry. “I’m really sorry. I know it’s awful in here.”

“It’s not your fault.” You sighed. “Oh, well. We’re just lucky it’s not snowing yet.”

Martin managed a weak chuckle, but he looked miserable, his glasses fogging as his breath hit the lenses. “Yet. You always know how to cheer me up.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Once he’d gone back to his desk, you tried to keep typing. Tried to stay focused. But it was impossible not to notice the way your fingers moved stiffly across the keys, the cold seeping in through your sleeves like ink soaking through paper. The desk under your forearms felt as if it was made of stone. The air had gone sharp, the kind of sharp that crept under your skin and stayed there, coiled and miserable.

It was quiet, too, unnervingly so. You didn’t realise how much the soft buzz of radiators or the ambient groan of old pipes filled the Archives until it was all gone. Now there was only the hum of fluorescents overhead and the occasional creak from the floorboards, as if the place was shifting, settling into the cold, a creature going to sleep.

Screw it. With a frustrated exhale, you pushed your chair back and made your way toward the break room. The couch greeted you like an old friend who didn’t want to be seen in public, all slouched and worn, slightly sad. The blanket draped across the back was one of those corporate-issue ones: grey, thin, vaguely itchy, probably older than Elias. You shook it out anyway and wrapped it around your shoulders, tugging it tight. The fabric smelled faintly of instant coffee. You sat back down at your desk, the blanket puddled around you like the flimsiest armour ever made.

From across the room, Martin sneezed violently. “Okay, that’s it,” he said, already pushing his chair back and standing. “I’m giving up. If I stay here any longer, I’m going to catch hypothermia and Jon will have to file a statement about how I turned into an ice sculpture.”

You let out a small laugh.

Martin began gathering his things, haphazardly stuffing papers into his bag. “I’ll just work from home.” He turned to you as he slung his coat over one arm. “Do you want to catch the bus together?”

You hesitated.

The words should’ve come easy – yes, please, let’s get out of this freezing tomb together – but they didn’t. Your flat was barely warmer than here, the radiators old and finicky, the insulation practically nonexistent. And your upstairs neighbours...well, there was a reason you’d started coming into the Institute on weekends. They were loud, always shouting or stomping around, arguing over god-knows-what at all hours.

At least here, buried in your notes and case files, there was work to distract you. Even now, as the Archives tried to freeze your blood in your veins.

“I think I’ll stay. See if it gets better. I’m behind on cataloguing, anyway,” you said, as casually as you could manage.

Martin gave you a look, his brow crinkling with concern. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s not getting any warmer. I’m not even sure Jon’s coming in today," he said, voice muffled by the scarf as he readjusted it around his neck.

“Fine,” you said, too quickly. He didn’t look convinced. “I’ll be okay. I’ve got my trusty blanket.” You lifted the edge of it theatrically.

Martin opened his mouth like he was going to argue, then closed it again. He shifted on his feet, lips twitching with worry. “Okay. Just be careful, yeah? Drink something warm. Don’t get sick. If it gets worse, just go.”

“I will.”

He gave a little nod, then turned, hesitated again at the door, and looked back. “You’ll text me if you need anything?”

“I promise.”

“Alright,” he said, reluctantly, and then finally disappeared into the corridor, boots thudding away, swallowed by the empty hush of the Archives.

You pulled the blanket tighter and attempted not to shiver audibly.

It wasn’t even noon.

Chapter Text

You didn’t know how long you sat there, hunched and stiff beneath the blanket, eyes glassy from staring too long at the same paragraph of a transcript, cursor blinking expectantly, waiting for you to stop pretending you were actually working.

The familiar press of cool air in the stacks was one thing but this was a vacuum, almost. You felt your warmth was being pulled from you, leeched out into the endless dark corners of the Institute’s basement. You could feel your body trying to conserve heat, curling inward, fingers aching with every movement, before the numbness made typing genuinely difficult.

Eventually, you couldn’t stand it anymore. Sitting still was only making it worse. You stood, slowly, muscles complaining, and decided to stretch your legs. Movement might help. Maybe you’d go back to the break room. Maybe you’d boil the kettle just for the steam.

You began to wander the corridors like a ghost, moving just to keep circulation flowing. You walked slowly through the main stacks, pulling your sleeves down further to cover your hands, blanket dragging behind you as a second shadow.

Then, as you passed the door to Jon’s office, you slowed, almost unconsciously.

It was closed, of course. Light glowed from under the door, just a thin sliver. You paused. The air here was different. It wasn’t warm, not by any stretch. Maybe less cold? The chill didn’t bite quite as hard here. You could feel it as you stood by the door. Small room. Sealed off. Less air to heat. A body inside it. A room where body heat had a fighting chance. It made sense.

You hesitated, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You could hear something inside, no a voice, movement, shuffling. He was in.

If you were honest, he made you a bit nervous. But not enough to freeze to death for the sake of pride. You raised your hand to knock on the door.

And as if summoned by your thoughts – or perhaps alerted by the gentle shift of floorboards outside his door – it opened with a soft, deliberate click.

Jonathan Sims stood there, framed by the dim lamplight of his office, wearing his usual sleeveless jumper and tired eyes. His expression pinched immediately when he saw you. You straightened instinctively, aware of how ridiculous you must look, wrapped in a pathetic blanket, nose pink, shivering slightly.

He blinked slowly. “...Is there a reason you’re lurking outside my door?” His tone was clipped, guarded. Paranoid. Jon’s new normal.

You tried to smile, but your face was stiff with cold. “Sorry. I was just...walking. It’s freezing out here.”

He frowned slightly and glanced past you down the corridor, as if noticing how cold it was in the hallway for the first time himself.

You gestured vaguely behind you, toward the vast cold expanse of the main archive. “The heating’s out. Martin tried to fix it, but...no luck. He left. Everyone else’s working from home,” you added. “It’s like the cold’s settled into the walls or something. Your office seems...” You looked around, shrugging. “Less terrible.”

Jon’s gaze followed you, assessing. The way your lips were pressed together. The slight tremor in your limbs. You felt it, the quiet calculation, the suspicion just under the surface. Since the Prentiss incident, he’d been different. It wasn’t just his usual unfriendliness anymore. He seemed more distant, keeping people at arm’s length. Like he didn’t trust anyone anymore, not even his own colleagues, not even you. You couldn’t blame him. Not really.

You hesitated, shifting the blanket higher on your shoulders. “I was wondering...” You caught yourself, suddenly embarrassed by how much your teeth were starting to chatter. “Listen, I won’t bother you. I just thought maybe...if I worked in here just for a bit, I might not freeze to death.”

He blinked. “You want to share my office.”

“Only for a little while.” You forced a smile. “Just until I can feel my fingers again. I swear I’ll be quiet. I won’t look at your notes, or your statements, or...your tea, or whatever. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He didn’t smile back. Of course he didn’t.

He looked at you, as though he was weighing the request against some internal scale of risk and trust. Then, finally, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do to have another team member fall ill,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Fine. You can stay. But–” He raised a finger. “You sit there.” He gestured to the chair at the corner of his desk, safely out of arm’s reach of anything interesting.

You nodded quickly. “Deal.”

“And no talking.”

“Of course.”

“And absolutely no reading anything unless I hand it to you.”

You gave him a solemn little salute. You moved quickly before he could change his mind, going to grab your laptop and a stack of statements, then hurried over and curled up in the chair, blanket still wrapped tight, knees drawn to your chest.

He closed the door behind you with a quiet click, then returned to his desk, flipping open a file as though nothing had happened. You perched on the chair across from him, silent, careful not to let your things touch any of the piles of papers and audio tapes that littered every surface like the debris of some academic hurricane. You kept your hands folded in your lap and tried not to shiver so obviously.

His office smelled like old paper and black tea. It was cluttered and not exactly comfortable, but it was better. The air in here wasn’t moving, no drafts, no whispers through the cracks in the floorboards. Just still, quiet air that was at least the temperature of a human being.

Jon returned to his work, or at least pretended to. You could feel him watching you from the corner of his eye, like he was waiting for you to explode into spiders or cast some kind of enchantment. When you didn’t, he gave a small nod and returned to his papers.

The room was silent for a few long minutes, save for the scratch of his pen and the occasional sip from his mug. You let yourself breathe. Let the relative warmth start to unknot your spine.

It was strange, being in here. Stranger still to realise that you’d never actually been inside Jon’s office before, save for peeking your head in. It was dim, even with the overhead lights. Shelves full of neatly labeled folders. Boxes stacked against one wall. His desk was a chaos of papers and mugs and carefully avoided eye contact. But there was something oddly comforting about it. A sense of order, even if it was brittle.

You stole a glance at Jon. He was hunched over his work, brow furrowed, scribbling furiously, like the act of writing itself was the only thing keeping something at bay. He said nothing else. He didn’t glance back up. He didn’t offer you tea. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t just gone home like the others. But he let you stay.

You pulled out your laptop and started typing. The silence between you was taut, but not unbearable. Maybe this day wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

You’d both fallen into the kind of silence that felt almost natural. The rustle of paper, the intermittent clack of your keyboard, and the tapping of Jon’s pen when he cross-referenced something formed a sort of rhythm, steady, muted, companionable in an oddly clinical way. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. You forgot he was there for long stretches. And maybe, you allowed yourself to think, he forgot you were there too.

Your bones, long since locked tight with cold, began to loosen. The worst of the shivering faded. Your fingers regained feeling, and for the first time all day, you could think. You lost yourself in your work, trailing through a dense tangle of notes and follow-ups from a witness who claimed they saw eyes in their bathroom mirror every night at 3:33 AM. It wasn’t a particularly interesting case, but at least it distraced you and that was enough.

The air in Jon’s office stayed steady, warmer than anywhere else in the Archives, close without being suffocating. You imagined your own breath mingling with his in the small room, two sets of body heat turning the stale chill into something almost bearable. It was purely practical. Biological. Physics.

Still, when you glanced up briefly and saw Jon hunched over his desk, furrowed brow etched in intense concentration, hair mussed where he’d run a hand through it one too many times, you felt something tighten in your chest that had nothing to do with temperature.

You looked away quickly.

Hours passed. Your work flowed easier than it had all week, notes compiled, statements linked, a cluster of patterns beginning to emerge in your mind.

Eventually, your stomach began to complain, a slow, embarrassed gurgle that echoed just loudly enough to be heard over the ambient shuffling of paper.

You winced and glanced at the time. Almost two.

You stretched, joints clicking, and carefully folded the blanket to leave on your chair. “I’m gonna pop out for food,” you said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

Jon blinked, as if returning from a long mental corridor. His pen stilled. He looked at you, then gave a small, noncommittal grunt and returned to his work. You took that as a yes, and left quietly.

The outside air hit you like a slap. It was colder now, wind biting, clouds hanging low and bruised with the promise of sleet. You pulled your coat tighter as you made your way to the sandwich shop on the corner, grabbing a soup and a muffin with fingers that could barely feel your wallet. The thought of returning to the cold stretches of the Archives chilled you more than the wind.

You lingered outside the Institute for a few moments before reentering. The moment you stepped back into the Archives, the cold sank into your chest again like a stone. The corridors felt lifeless, as though the building itself had decided to sleep through winter.

Without thinking twice, you made your way back to Jon’s office.

You knocked gently, a question more than a demand.

The door opened a few seconds later, and Jon looked at you with his usual weariness, already anticipating your request.

You gave him your best please-don’t-make-me-suffer face, wide eyes, paper bag clutched under one arm, soup cup in the other. “It’s so cold out there,” you said simply.

Jon rolled his eyes with such exasperated theatricality you almost smiled. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping aside.

“Bless you,” you said as you slipped in, immediately basking in the deliciously thicker air of his office. You resumed your seat, unfolding your blanket again like it belonged there.

He didn’t respond, already back at his notes, but for a moment you swore the corner of his mouth twitched.

You sipped your soup slowly, letting the warmth fill you in stages, and returned to your own work, transcripts and catalogued statements, notes about possible cross-references. The hum of thought and typing slowly reclaimed the space, a rhythm that didn’t ask for conversation.

But as the clock ticked past four, you noticed something. Jon hadn’t eaten. You glanced over at him, eyes sunken, expression pinched, posture as taut as ever. There was a sharpness to him today that wasn’t just the cold or the usual paranoia. He looked exhausted.

You looked down at the small brown bag on your lap. Inside, the muffin, blueberry, warm earlier, still soft now albeit slightly squashed.

You hesitated, fingers curling around the paper, before unwrapping it. You held it up to him, within reach but not in the way.

Jon looked up, eyes flicking to your hand, then back to your face.

“I noticed you didn’t eat lunch.”

“I did.” You raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “Well, I had…tea.”

You smiled, just a little. “That doesn’t count.”

He blinked once. “I don’t usually eat when I’m working.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you said, holding the muffin closer. “Here.”

Jon stared at it like you were trying to hand him a dead rat.

“What is this?”

“It’s a muffin,” you said, trying to suppress your smile and failing.

He frowned. “I know it’s a muffin.”

“It’s food, Jon. You eat it. To survive.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, suspicion flaring across his face. “But why are you giving it to me?”

The question caught you off guard. “Because you didn’t eat? Because it’s cold and miserable and you look like you haven’t seen sunlight in a week?”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“God, Jon. It’s just food. No strings attached. But if you don’t want to, I’m not going to force it in your mouth.”

His jaw twitched, like he was chewing on a retort and deciding against it. Then, slowly, grudgingly, with all the reluctance of someone accepting help under duress, he reached out and took it from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, dry and surprisingly steady.

“Thanks,” he muttered, without meeting your eyes.

You turned back to your computer, giving him the dignity of not watching him eat it.

Out of the corner of your eye, though, you saw him take a bite.

You returned to your work without comment, hiding your smile.

The hours passed in gentle, golden increments.

Jon had turned on a small desk lamp at some point, an old thing with a weak amber glow that softened the edges of the office and made the walls feel closer, the shadows more comforting than ominous. The fan of your laptop hummed, faint and steady. Occasionally Jon would scribble something emphatically, and you could hear the rasp of pen against paper like static. Other times, he’d mutter under his breath, trying out a phrasing or pausing in the middle of a statement to frown at the wall as though it might give him answers. His breathing was quiet, a subtle counterpoint to the soft creaks of the building shifting. And for the first time in days, or maybe longer, your body wasn’t tense. You weren’t freezing. You weren’t aching. You weren’t listening to footsteps upstairs or trains outside your window. Just warmth. Just quiet. Just him across the room, steady, grounding, and alive.

You finished a statement. Curled tighter in your blanket. Let your eyes rest for a moment while waiting for a PDF to load. Just a moment.

The next thing you knew, Jon was saying your name.

Gently. More gently than you would have expected from him.

Your eyes, still sticky with sleep, fluttered open to the dim amber light and the gentle sound of Jon’s voice saying your name again, just above a whisper, low and careful. “[Y/N]?”

You blinked, disoriented. Jon was standing over you, face drawn in quiet concern, his hand on the back of the chair, not touching you, but close enough to ground you.

You sat up quickly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The blanket slipped from your shoulder.

“I– oh God. I didn’t mean to– how long was I–?”

“For a while.” Jon said, stepping back to give you space and moving back to his desk. His tone was flat but not cold.

You rubbed your eyes, cheeks warming. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...you should’ve woken me up.”

He shrugged one shoulder, almost imperceptibly, eyes already back on his work. “You looked like you needed it.”

You paused. It hit harder than it should have, the quiet way he said it, not unkind, not pitying. Just an observation, noticing something no one else had.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I guess I did.”

And it was true. The exhaustion had been following you for weeks, exhaustion that lived behind your eyes, that settled into your chest and made everything heavy. You hadn’t been sleeping. Not with the noise upstairs, with the winter air creeping through the cracks of your flat, with the way the smell of rot and the sickly squelch of worms had begun crawling into your dreams. Sleep had become something fractured, a flickering light you could never hold for long. At home, every sound reminded you of that day. Every silence felt wrong.

But here, cocooned in this odd, quiet room, with Jon’s steady scribbling and the soft hum of your laptop and the warmth of shared air…you had slept better than you had in weeks.

“Thanks,” you murmured, voice smaller than before.

Jon nodded absentmindedly, as though he hadn’t just offered you something deeply kind in the most understated way possible.

Your gaze landed on your laptop, at the screen that had dimmed from inactivity. “God, it’s late. You could’ve kicked me out hours ago.”

Jon shrugged again, lightly. “Didn’t see the harm in letting you stay. You weren’t...disturbing anything.”

Your lips twitched. “That’s almost a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He didn't look up, adjusting the pages in front of him with a familiar, fidgety precision. But he didn’t tell you to leave.

You hoped that maybe, in his own way, Jonathan Sims was beginning to trust you.

You began to gather your things slowly, sleep still clinging to your limbs. “I should go.”

Jon didn’t reply immediately. Just nodded again, eyes scanning the statement in front of him. His pen was poised but unmoving.

You stood, folding the blanket carefully and tucking it under your arm. At the door, you paused.

He hadn’t moved. He was already back to reading in the low golden light of his desk lamp. Same posture. Same quiet focus. Same exhaustion pressed into the lines of his face.

You frowned.

“...What is it?” he asked without looking up, sensing your stare.

“You’re staying?” you asked, not accusing, just puzzled.

Jon glanced up then. His eyes were tired, ringed with quiet shadows. But his shoulders were set, determined. “Yes.”

You lingered. “Jon…You should go home too.”

Jon made a noncommittal sound, flipping a page. “I’ve got more to get through.”

“You always do. But it’s nearly nine,” you pointed out.

“All the more reason.”

“You’re exhausted. And you barely ate.”

“I’ve worked under worse conditions.”

“That’s not really the point, is it?” you said carefully, “What good are the statements if you’re too burned out to make sense of them?”

He didn’t respond, but the crease between his brows deepened.

“You’re here first. You’re here last. I know you think you have to be. But you’re still a person, Jon.” You took a step closer, gently. “You let me stay because you said I looked like I needed it. Well, so do you.”

There was a long pause. You watched him visibly weigh the options. His body leaned toward staying, as if his bones had adapted to this desk, this space, this burden. But his expression cracked just a little, the edges of his mouth softening. A hesitation.

“Go home. You’ll do better work for it tomorrow. You don’t have to prove anything tonight,” you added, voice quiet.

Jon exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. A release. He set the paper down.

“I suppose,” he murmured. “Since you’re insisting.”

“I am.” You smiled.

He capped his pen. Closed the folder. Stood, a little stiff, joints popping slightly from hours in one position. He pulled on his coat, eyes avoiding yours. “Only because I need to pick up groceries.”

“Of course,” you said solemnly. “A noble and time-sensitive mission.”

He gave a huff that was dangerously close to a laugh.

“C’mon,” you said. “I’ll walk you out.”

Chapter Text

You left your flat with a thick jumper beneath your coat, scarf tucked high under your chin, and, slung over your arm like a prized cloak, a second, larger blanket. It was the one you usually saved for actual winter and that lived folded at the foot of your bed and smelled faintly of vanilla and old laundry detergent. You’d debated bringing a hot water bottle, too, but figured that might be too far.

As you stepped through the Institute’s doors, your breath still misted in the air.

Damn.

You trudged downstairs, already bracing for it. Sure enough, the Archives were still caught in that frozen hush, a silence that didn’t just lie between things but settled on top of them, like frost. Your desk was untouched, the chair cold as stone. Even with the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders, it didn’t help much. The air clung to your skin, a slow, creeping chill.

You sighed aloud this time, letting it echo faintly through the stacks. You were the only one here again. Martin hadn’t messaged, but you assumed he’d made the sensible choice. Tim and Sasha were still working remotely, or avoiding the place, depending on how generous you felt.

You sat for maybe ten minutes, trying to push through it. But your fingers started to ache. Your nose went numb.

That’s it, you thought, standing abruptly. I’m not doing this again.

You left the Institute and set out down the street, cheeks stinging from the wind. It took three different shops – one hardware store, a chemist, and finally a cramped charity shop run by an elderly man who had trouble hearing your questions when you asked – but eventually you found it. A small, slightly dented portable heater. The box was faded, the price was handwritten. But when the man plugged it in to demonstrate, it hummed. It worked.

You carried it back like a relic, like you were cradling a sacred object.

When you descended back into the Archives, the shift in temperature hit you again. But this time, you smiled. “Not for long,” you muttered to yourself.

You set the heater near your desk, plugging it into one of the wall sockets and waiting, breath held. The fan kicked on with a low, soft whir and then came the heat. Real, glorious heat.

It wasn’t perfect. Your corner of the Archives still had a draft, and the warmth didn’t travel far. But if you stayed close – knees tucked up, wrapped in your blanket, legs near the fan’s glow – it was downright livable. Cosy, even. Like you were camping out in a tiny circle of warmth surrounded by arctic wasteland.

You worked for a while, poking through old statements, highlighting connections, your fingers no longer stiff. But your mind kept drifting.

It was almost too quiet.

The Archives were always quiet, but this was a hollow, echoing kind of silence, a constant reminder that you were alone. That everyone else had found ways not to be here.

You looked up, eyes skimming the space beyond the faint halo of warmth your heater created.

The darkness between shelves. The dust motes floating in columns of light. The unoccupied desks. Sasha’s chair still had her scarf draped over it. Tim’s mug had gone cold days ago.

You chewed your lip and let your gaze shift.

Jon’s office door was closed, as always. But you knew he was in. The lamp was on. You could see the thin sliver of light beneath the frame. Your eyes lingered.

It had been…oddly nice, yesterday. Strange, sure. But nice. You hadn’t expected him to say yes, hadn’t expected him to let you stay the whole day. You hadn’t expected that sense of comfort that came from sitting near him, the steadiness in his scribbling, the quiet rhythm of thought beside your own.

You were warmer now. Technically.

You watched the door a few seconds longer, heater humming steadily at your feet, your new faithful little pet.

Before you knew it, your feet were taking you down the hall without much thought, past Martin’s empty desk, past the corkboard still half-covered in notes Tim pinned there weeks ago and hadn’t touched since.

You lingered near the threshold of Jon’s door. Almost unconsciously, you leaned in.

From inside, you could hear the faintest sound: Jon’s voice. Low. Focused. Measured, but muffled. Recording a statement, most likely. You couldn’t make out the words, just the cadence, the rhythm, precise even through the door.

You turned, lips pressing into a small sigh.

Right. Of course. You should go back. He was busy. You had your own little circle of warmth now. You shouldn’t–

The voice stopped.

You froze. You waited. One minute. Two. Nothing. Not even the shuffle of papers.

You bit your lip. Hesitated. Then, gently, knocked.

A pause.

Then, a familiar voice: “Yes?”

You opened the door, just enough to peek your head in.

Jon was at his desk, hands resting on an open folder, posture stiff. He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses. “[Y/N],” he said, not sounding surprised, though no more thrilled than usual.

“It’s still freezing,” you offered, shifting awkwardly in the doorway.

He raised an eyebrow, dry as ever. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”

Silence.

You hovered in place, unsure now. And just when you were about to mumble a sorry and back out, he sighed, long-suffering and theatrical in the way only Jon could be and gestured vaguely at the chair. “Fine. If you’re not going to stop hovering, you might as well come in.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you chanted as you swept out, practically bouncing.

He shook his head with a roll of his eyes, but you saw it, just a flicker, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. A hint of amusement he was pretending not to have.

You made a detour to your desk, gathering your things, then reappeared at his door with the heater cradled in both hands like it was the Ark of the Covenant.

“I come bearing gifts,” you announced, beaming, holding up the heater in dramatic display.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Gifts?”

You set it down with a flourish and clicked it on. The gentle whir and warmth began immediately.

Jon looked at the heater. Then at you. “Wait,” he asked slowly, “why do you want to work in here if you have a heater?”

Your smile faltered just a little.

Oh. Right.

You hesitated, mouth open, then closing again. “I…well,” you started, then cleared your throat. “I figured you might be cold too. And we could share it.”

You weren’t sure why it made you feel so stupid to say it out loud. Like a child offering to split their coat.

Your cheeks warmed with embarrassment, not from the heater this time. You looked down. “I can leave,” you added quickly, voice quieter. “If you want me to.”

It was soft, honest. The dejection leaked through before you could tuck it away.

Jon didn’t answer right away. You heard the squeak of his chair as he leaned back, the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted. You didn’t look up; you were too busy pretending to inspect your heater’s fan like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Then Jon cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was quieter too. Less guarded. “That’s…kind of you,” he said. “To think of that.”

You glanced up.

He looked faintly uncomfortable with the words, like they were shoes half a size too small. He looked anywhere but your face. “You can stay.”

Your smile bloomed before you could stop it.

“Thank you,” you said again, and this time it was quieter, less giddy, more warm.

Jon didn’t look at you as you settled in again, spreading your notes out on the small corner of his desk, but you could see him softening at the edges. His shoulders seemed a little looser.

The soft hum of the heater was the only sound in the room for a long while, low and even, a lullaby for the bones. You’d both sunk into work easily, wordless and focused, as if yesterday had quietly set a new precedent, a kind of fragile peace brokered by shared warmth and mutual weariness.

You were highlighting sections of a statement, not particularly exciting but pleasantly absorbing in its repetition. The quiet helped. So did the warmth, now radiating gently through the room.

Then you felt something. A tingle at the back of your neck.

You didn’t look up at first, unsure if it was just your imagination, but the feeling didn’t leave. You turned a page slowly, but your fingers stalled halfway through the motion. You were sure: Jon was looking at you. Not speaking. Not making a show of it. But definitely watching.

You didn’t say anything. Just kept your eyes on the paper in front of you. Let him look.

Eventually, his gaze dropped again. You heard the soft scratch of his pen returning to his notes.

But not two minutes later, it happened again. A flicker, just long enough to be noticed.

You marked a sentence. Adjusted your posture. The air felt warmer now, though you weren’t sure it was the heater anymore.

You looked up. Your eyes met his.

Jon froze like he’d been caught in the act of something illicit. His lips parted, like he might say something, but no sound came. He blinked, once, twice, then looked down quickly, checking his papers. A sharp throat-clear cut the air.

“I– I should record this one,” he said abruptly, nudging a folder on his desk.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him shuffle to reach the recorder. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. Then, trying again with more control: “No. It’s fine. As long as you stay quiet.”

You pressed a hand to your heart. “I swear to uphold the sacred vow of archival silence.”

He didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth did twitch again, that same betrayed little tug that meant he was trying not to.

Jon sat a bit straighter, composed himself, reached for the recorder, and clicked it on. The red light blinked. Then he began.

You tried to return to your own work, you really did. But his voice filled the room.

Measured, clipped, faintly rough around the edges. It should have been monotonous, but there was a rhythm to it. A gravity. Jon didn’t just read statements, he inhabited them. His tone shifted, precise, magnetic, weaving emotion through the words without surrendering to it. And the story itself – this one about a crumbling boarding house in Shropshire, an inexplicable dripping sound behind the walls, something that breathed through the floorboards – took shape in the air, summoned by his words.

You stopped pretending to focus. Just listened. Eyes on your page, sure, but ears tuned entirely to him.

When he finished, the pause after was like a string pulled tight and then cut.

The click of the recorder stopped it clean.

You blinked.

“That was…” you murmured. “Really well read.”

Jon cleared his throat again, eyes on the recorder. “It’s not meant to be performed,” he muttered. “It’s just necessary for documentation.”

You smiled faintly. “Still. You have a good voice for it.”

He looked at you then, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the logic to.

You gestured toward the folder still on the desk. “Should I do the follow-up now? I finished the one I was working on.”

He flipped the folder open, skimmed the attached notes, then glanced at you. “Yes…yes, that would be helpful.”

He held it out to you. Your fingers brushed.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks first and Jon’s eyes darted briefly to your hand, then away, like he hadn’t meant to look at all.

You shifted, taking the folder and sitting back with a little more awareness of the space between you.

You worked. Followed up on the details in the statement, sifting through databases, matching names, following citations in old case files. There was something off about the plumbing records in the house, a past tenant who’d disappeared but never been reported missing, little things, but odd. You jotted down notes, and after a while, turned to him again.

“Got something. Looks like this woman, Eliza Meacham, made a call to the police two days after the incident, just like the statement said. But I checked the registry and the municipal records,” you said. “There’s something weird about the dates. They don’t line up. The building might’ve been condemned earlier than the statement claims.”

Jon leaned forward, interest sharpening his expression. “Really? Show me.”

You turned your laptop to him.

He nodded slowly, tapping the page with a finger. “That’s…good. I might have missed that.” His voice was thoughtful. Then his eyes drifted back to you, softened with something like genuine appreciation. “You’re quite good at this.”

You shrugged, half-shy, half-proud. “Helps having the right motivation.”

That earned a faint snort, quiet and quickly smothered, but there nonetheless.

Silence settled again. This time a warm, companionable silence.

Jon leaned back slightly in his chair, fingertips pressing lightly together. Then, almost to himself, he hummed a thoughtful little sound. “…It’s quite helpful, actually,” he said, voice low, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Having you here.”

You looked up, surprised. The words were simple, but in Jon-speak, they may as well have been a sonnet.

He didn’t look at you. Just went back to rearranging some folders, like it was nothing.

You didn’t press. Just tucked the moment away, carefully, somewhere warm.

Evening crept up on you without warning. One minute you were reviewing police records, and the next, you startled when you saw the numbers on the clock.

Jon was still at his desk, cleaning his glasses, looking as if he might just fall asleep on top of his papers if left uninterrupted.

You stood, stretched. “Jon?” you asked gently.

He didn’t look up, but made small noise in acknowledgement.

“We should go home.”

He blinked. “I– well, I’m nearly done here. There’s no need to–”

“You already said that yesterday, I think.”

That earned you a look. Flat, slightly exasperated, but you saw the tiredness in his eyes. And maybe the faint recognition that you weren’t wrong.

Still: “I don’t need someone telling me when to leave.”

“You do if you’ve forgotten how to read a clock.”

You heard his tiny nose exhale before he could rein it in.

To your quiet surprise, he rose, collecting his papers with careful precision, tucking everything into its proper place. He gathered his coat, didn’t complain again. That made something flutter in your chest, small and startled.

You picked up your bag, turned off the heater and unplugged it.

Together, you walked through the dim, echoing corridors of the Institute, the only sound your footfalls on the wood and the distant buzz of a flickering light overhead. You kept the heater back in Jon’s office, tucked safely in the corner, already looking like it belonged there.

You reached the lobby.

Then: “Ah. Oh no.”

You turned. Jon was standing just before the doors, staring outside.

It was pouring. Sheets of rain pelted the pavement beyond the glass, slanting sideways a bit in the wind. It wasn’t just rain. It was the kind of storm that would chill you to the bones and made your shoes soggy just by thinking about leaving.

Jon groaned, shifting his bag on his shoulder and frowning at the deluge outside like it had personally offended him.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. “I… forgot my umbrella.”

A beat.

He gave a sheepish little huff. “I didn’t expect the sky to collapse.”

“Well.” You reached into your own bag, pulled out a neatly folded umbrella. “Lucky for you, I didn’t.” You held it out to him.

He frowned immediately. “You’ll get soaked.”

You just smiled, nudging it toward him again. “I just have to get to the bus stop, it’s barely five minutes. You have it farther, don’t you?”

“That’s not–” He paused, faltering. “I can’t take it.”

You smiled. “You can. Just give it back tomorrow.”

His mouth opened, some argument no doubt forming, but then he looked at the doors again, and the rain beyond them, unrelenting and feral.

“I’ll…bring it back in the morning,” he said, as if trying to make it even.

You nodded. “Deal.”

He reached out and took it from you, turning it over in his hands like it was made of glass.

Then: “Let me walk you to your stop. It’s–” he said, a little gruff, but genuine, “not right to let you walk alone…And it’s the least I can do.”

“All right, that’s fair,” you said. “Thanks.”

So the two of you stepped outside, into the edge of the storm, just under the cover of the umbrella, close enough that your coats brushed every so often. The rain fell in sheets around you, soaking the pavement and turning everything into a blur of reflected lights and dark ripples. Your shoes splashed softly with every step.

It was a strange kind of quiet, no words, yet not uncomfortable. You were acutely aware of Jon next to you, his shoulder almost brushing yours, one hand tightly gripping the umbrella’s handle like he didn’t trust it to stay open.

The wind carried the scent of rain and pavement. The city, slick and glistening. Cars hissed by like ghosts. Water pooled in the cracks of the pavement. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, more lullaby than warning at this point.

There was something oddly peaceful about it. Like a moment that had folded itself between the chaos.

You reached your bus stop before you expected to. The little sign glistened with water droplets.

You turned to Jon, pulling your hood up. “See you tomorrow,” you said, smiling, a real one, warm and tired and just a little shy.

Jon met your eyes. And for once, didn’t look away immediately.

“Sleep well,” he said.

And something in his voice made your breath catch, not because of what he said, but because he meant it.

You nodded, clutching your coat tighter around you, watching as he turned and stepped back into the rain, umbrella shielding him in a small circle of dry space.

He didn’t look back.

But the soft click of his shoes in puddles followed you for a long moment after.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed with a rhythm so gentle, it almost lulled you into forgetting how it had all started.

Each morning, you’d arrive bundled up and knock softly on Jon’s office door, a little ritual now – three quiet taps, a pause, and then your head poking in, already grinning.

And each time, Jon would look up from his desk, sometimes surprised, sometimes not,  and mutter a gruff, “You again,” or “Alright, come in, then,” before shifting his papers to make space for you and your things.

The office felt almost as much yours as his now. Your heater lived in the corner. A second mug, clearly not Jon’s, started appearing on his desk. You brought tea and sometimes snacks, or leftovers wrapped in foil, which you’d slide across his desk without comment, close enough to tempt but not close enough to pressure. Sometimes he’d blink at it suspiciously, sometimes he’d hesitate…but he always accepted it in the end.

And sometimes, when he was particularly absorbed in a statement, he’d start reading aloud without even commenting.

You never interrupted. You just listened.

Afterward, he’d glance your way – his expression half guarded, half curious – and you’d talk. About the case, about strange gaps in records, inconsistencies, creepy little details. It became…something. Comfortable, close. He no longer hesitated before handing you statements. Occasionally, very occasionally, your knees bumped under the table and neither of you pulled away.

The cold was still brutal in the rest of the Institute, but inside that cramped office, between the heater, the tea, and Jon’s slowly-thawing disposition, it felt warmer than it had in weeks.

You hadn’t realised how much you’d come to like it.

You arrived as usual, coat dusted with frost, breath fogging in the air as you made your way through the lobby. You turned into the corridor toward the Archives, scarf tight around your neck, mentally planning how you’d coax Jon into trying the new biscuit tin you brought–

And stopped. You weren’t cold. The air was...warm. Comfortable.

Your boots slowed against the floorboards, a strange, hollow feeling opening in your chest.

You reached out and touched the nearest radiator. It was warm. A low hum buzzed in the pipes. You stood there, hand pressed to it like maybe you’d imagined it...but no. It was real. The heating was back.

That hollow feeling shifted lower. Lead in your stomach.

You stared at the radiator like it had betrayed you. Which, frankly, it kind of had.

You pulled out your phone and sent a quick message to the group chat.

[You]: Good news, heating’s finally back on!

A thumbs-up from Tim. A thank god from Sasha. Martin replied with a relieved GIF of a man diving into a pile of blankets. You smiled weakly at the screen, then lowered it.

It was supposed to be a good thing. The Archives were warm again. You wouldn’t have to wear fingerless gloves indoors, wouldn’t have to warm your hands on a tea cup for them to work.

You wouldn’t have to hole up in Jon’s office to work. Wouldn’t have to bring your heater or tea or an extra blanket. Wouldn’t have to share the same small table, or listen to his voice from the other side of the desk, or pass notes about contradictory census data like kids in school.

You didn’t have to stay in Jon’s space anymore.

And maybe you weren’t ready to leave it behind.

Your fingers curled a little tighter around the biscuit tin, suddenly ridiculous in your arms.

You stood there like a ghost for a full minute, not moving. Just feeling the weight of a comfort quietly, mercilessly undone.

You hadn’t realised how much it meant, until it was gone.

An hour later, the door to the Archives creaked open, and a rush of cold air swept in, swirling old papers and dust motes. You looked up just in time to see Martin stepping inside, bundled in a too-large coat and scarf, clutching a takeaway cup like a lifeline, cheeks flushed red from the cold. Tim followed right behind, in a far-too-stylish pea coat for someone who claimed to have “absolutely nothing clean to wear this week.”

They were both talking – well, Tim was talking, Martin was mostly nodding along while trying to sip his drink without dribbling it down his scarf.

“Feels normal in here,” Tim announced, sniffing dramatically. “Is that…circulating air I detect?”

You laughed and the sound felt strange and light in your chest after days of soft silences.

“Feels like a working building again,” Martin added with a shy smile, unwinding his scarf. “Honestly didn’t think I’d miss this place.”

You stood from your chair, smile blooming without permission. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Martin stepped closer. “God, it’s nice to be back. Warmer, too. I thought my flat was going to actually freeze me to death. You didn’t get sick, did you? I was worried when I didn’t hear back much.”

“No,” you said, brushing invisible dust off your sleeves. “I’m fine. A little cold, but…I managed.”

Tim leaned one hip on the desk. “Managed? I bet you were bundled up in five layers and this place probably still felt like an igloo.”

“I, um…” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was alright. Jon let me share his office.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Piss off,” Tim muttered, eyebrows shooting up.

“With Jon?” Martin echoed, staring at you as if you’d just grown a second head.

“Yeah,” you said, sheepishly, tugging your sleeve down over your hand. “He…wasn’t thrilled at first, but it worked out.”

Tim leaned closer, grinning. “You mean to tell me that Jonathan Sims let someone else be within ten feet of him for more than ten minutes and didn’t spontaneously combust? And that you went willingly?”

Martin tried to cover his laugh with a cough. “He barely lets me hand him mail.”

You snorted. “He wasn’t that bad. A little grumpy, yeah. But he actually…kind of warmed up.”

“Wow,” Tim said, mock-sincere. “He must really like you.”

You shook your head, laughing. “Shut up.”

You talked a bit longer, about the heating, the way the break room coffee had gotten worse, somehow, even though no one thought that was possible. Tim riffed on the apocalypse coming if Jon ever voluntarily engaged in social behaviour. Their voices, teasing and familiar, were a comfort. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed them: Martin’s soft-eyed concern, Tim’s ridiculous commentary, the way their presence made the space feel alive again. You laughed, genuinely glad to see them again, even if a quiet part of you missed the solitude…or, well, not solitude. Not quite.

The three of you had only been working a short while, falling into that companionable quiet, when you heard it: firm, measured steps approaching. You looked up to see Jon crossing the room, holding a thin stack of papers and glancing around as though surprised to find the Archives suddenly populated again.

His gaze caught yours.

“Ah–” he started, clearly thrown off by the others’ presence. Then he cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the documents. “I, uh…I was wondering if you had a moment. There are a few details in these statements that need follow-up and…I thought perhaps you’d be the best one to research them.”

“Sure,” you said, already reaching for a pen.

He lingered, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “And if it’s not too much trouble…would you mind doing it in my office? It would be easier if I…if I need to check something quickly, or cross-reference.”

You blinked.

You could feel Martin and Tim’s eyes boring into you from their desks, even as they tried – and failed – to look nonchalant.

You stared at Jon for a beat longer than necessary. He was staring at your desk, his brow slightly furrowed as if he was already preparing for you to say no.

“Yes. Of course,” you said quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Happy to help.”

If Jon noticed the immediate change in your tone, he didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, short and sharp, and turned to walk ahead.

You gathered your things with practiced efficiency, trying not to beam too obviously as you passed Tim’s not-so-subtle smirk and Martin’s barely stifled what just happened?

“See you boys later,” you said lightly.

A few steps later, you reached Jon’s office. You slipped in after him and shut the door quietly behind you. It was warm in here still, not just from your heater, but from something else, too. For the first time that day, that weird, aching tightness in your chest loosened.

Jon moved to his desk, already shuffling through files, all focus now. You set your things down in your usual spot without being told.

He looked up briefly. “I appreciate the help.”

You smiled again, soft and easy. “Of course.”

And just like that, the silence settled back into something companionable.

Maybe, just maybe, that quiet space you’d shared wasn’t quite over yet. Not if Jon was asking for you to come back.

The heater had been fixed for five days. Five entire days since the chill lifted and the rest of the archival team trickled back in like birds after a storm. You’d half-expected things to simply return to normal: a good-natured kind of chaotic silence, everyone at their desks, Tim making some loud joke, Martin trying not to spill tea on files.

And for the most part, they had. Except for Jon.

It started subtly. He appeared at your desk again mid-morning the day after Tim and Martin returned, statement in hand, tapping it against his palm.

“There are several footnotes here referencing an earlier case file,” he said, voice casual. “Could you help me locate it?”

“Sure,” you said, reaching for your laptop. “Just tell me which–”

“I think it’s in Box 9C.” He paused. “We could go through it together. Might be faster.”

It wasn’t faster. The reference was indexed online. But still, you followed him. Into his office. The door clicked shut behind you with finality.

The next day, he asked you to double-check an obituary, holding out a wrinkled local newspaper clipping that had clearly been scanned and uploaded to the Archives’ system three weeks ago.

“Could’ve emailed that,” you said with a barely concealed smirk, but stepping inside anyway.

It started to feel like ritual: him requesting you. You complying. Him pretending it was practicality. You pretending not to notice.

Sometimes, when you arrived in the mornings, the door to his office was already ajar, not wide, just enough, and Jon’s head turned ever-so-slightly from inside, gaze flicking to the door as if he’d been listening for your steps. Like an invitation without the pressure of being asked aloud. Other days, he intercepted you in the corridor, files in hand, eyebrows raised.

“This one’s messy,” he’d mutter. “You’d be quicker than me.”

You doubted that was true anymore. Still, you followed. Every time.

You slowly settled into a routine. You’d bring him tea and he’d lift his eyes from a transcript and glance at you, furtive and unsure, as if he was still not quite used to someone being there, but found comfort in the fact all the same.

When he started to return the gesture, it was always awkwardly offered, like he hadn’t quite decided whether to say anything at all.

“Tea,” he’d say, with a nod toward the mug he’d set by your elbow. “I made some. There was extra.”

“Thanks,” you’d say, hiding your grin. “Lucky me.”

Sometimes your shoulders brushed when you were reviewing something together. Sometimes his arm would bump yours when you both reached for the same file. You started to notice that he didn’t flinch or pause anymore when you touched.

You also caught him looking at you a few times, the feeling of being watched like a quiet weight at the edge of your awareness. Always when he thought you weren’t paying attention. It was never overt, just a flicker, a moment too long held. Once, while you were bent over a file, you looked up suddenly and caught him mid-gaze. He didn’t glance away fast enough. Your eyes met. His expression was hard to decipher, not cold, not soft. Just focused, like he was trying to make sense of you, and getting closer to the answer than he meant to. But then he averted his gaze, quickly, abruptly, cheeks flushed, eyes darting back to his page as he fumbled for his pen, seemingly forgotten in his hand. You said nothing.

Once, when you were both cross-checking a timeline of dates from two overlapping statements, Jon muttered dryly, “Honestly, it’s like they planned their hauntings to be inconvenient.”

You snorted. Then actually laughed. And when you looked up, Jon looked…stunned. The ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, like he’d startled himself with the joke, or your reaction to it.

Then, after a second, his expression softened.

He didn’t smile often. But when he did, it was slow, and tentative, like the sunrise through clouds. That kind of rare, shy brightness you didn’t want to interrupt by acknowledging it too quickly.

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled back.

The Archives were back to usual business: warmer, fuller, louder. Martin’s gentle chattiness, Tim’s irreverent commentary, even Sasha’s rare, biting sarcasm during her mid-afternoon caffeine crash, had returned in full. But every day, Jon still found you, requesting things that grew increasingly…optional. You suspected, deep down, that Jon knew that too. But he still asked. And you always said yes.

Chapter Text

You were curled up in Jon’s office, legs tucked beneath you, trying to decipher the most cryptically annotated statement you’d seen all week. The heater hummed beside your chair, a welcome breeze though it wasn’t really needed anymore. You could hear Jon rummaging through a lower drawer, muttering softly under his breath.

“Misfiled? No. I know I had it–” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He pulled out a folder, flipped through it, frowned.

“No, that’s not it either…” he mumbled, digging deeper.

You looked up from your work. “Lose something?”

“Possibly,” he said, tone curt but not unkind. “The recording of a statement. I made notes on the tape. Of course it’s gone.”

He straightened slightly and reached further in, knocking items aside. Papers shifted. A clunk. Then, after a moment, he emerged with something in his hands: a mason jar.

Without thinking, he set it on the edge of his desk to make more space.

Your eyes flicked up, drawn by the motion. The jar was simple, sealed tight with a metal lid, the inside packed with grey, dry, crumbling earth. At first, you just assumed it was some sort of specimen.

Then you looked closer.

“…Why do you have a jar of dirt in your desk?” you asked, brow furrowing.

He glanced at you, then at it. “Hm? Oh. No, that’s not dirt.”

You raised a brow. “Then…?”

Jon, still bent at the drawer, waved a hand vaguely. “Those are Prentiss’s ashes.”

Your stomach did something complicated.

“…Sorry– what?”

He stood, brushing off his sleeves, then gestured to the jar again with a strange, off-handed calm. “Her ashes. Supposedly.”

“I– Jon. That’s in your desk. Next to…staples. And post-its.”

“I wasn’t exactly sure where else to keep it,” he said with a hint of awkwardness. “And in all likelihood, it isn’t really her. Martin gave it to me. Probably just a symbolic gesture.” He paused. “Though if it is her, I imagine she’d be furious.”

You stared at the jar. The contents looked like fine, grey earth – scattered with something coarser, maybe bone fragments. Or maybe not. You didn’t want to look too closely.

“So…you don’t think it’s really her?” you asked softly.

Jon shook his head. “I doubt it. More likely he swept some of the destroyed records and tried to give the trauma a lid.” His voice was clinical, but his eyes were distant. His mouth tightened.

“I was…in a difficult headspace, after the attack. I’d seen what she became. What she did. And I still…I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop seeing it.” His voice was flat, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I think he just wanted to give me something to contain it,” Jon added. “Even if it wasn’t real. Something to close the loop.”

He sat back in his chair, fingers laced in his lap. “It’s stupid, I know. But I kept it. For a while, it was the only way I could make myself believe it was over.”

You looked down, then at the jar again. “It doesn’t feel over.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

The silence that fell was different from the usual kind between you. Heavier, more truthful.

Your fingers traced one of the circular scars on your wrist. You tried to suppress a shiver, exhaled slowly. “I…I still check the ceiling.”

Jon looked at you.

“Every night,” you continued, softly. “And under my bed. I used to have to sleep with the light on. Didn’t really help. Sometimes still doesn’t.” You let out a breath. “After her attack. I–I didn’t even see all of it. But the sound of her– of those things. It got inside my head, and it stayed there. I still wake up some nights and swear I can hear it. Or feel…something on my skin…under it.”

Jon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes were on you.

“I don’t think I’ve slept properly since,” you admitted. “Everything feels loud. And heavy. Like the quiet is waiting for something to burst through.”

Jon leaned back in his chair. His voice was quieter now.

“Fear doesn’t leave cleanly,” he said. “It stains. And the places it touches…” He paused. “They never go back to how they were.”

You nodded slowly.

He was still looking at the jar, but you could tell he wasn’t really seeing it.

“I think I stopped trusting my own mind after her,” he murmured. “It’s hard to explain. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just…kept going. Like a cracked teacup pretending to hold water.”

You exhaled softly. “Jon…”

He looked at you then, gently. There it was again, that feeling. That fragile thread between you, stretched taut, glowing softly in the dim light of the office.

“I get it,” you said. Quiet, but certain. “I really do.”

And for once, Jon didn’t deflect. He just nodded.

And for a few moments, you both simply sat there. Together in the quiet. Not just coexisting, but understanding.

The jar stayed on the desk between you, but it didn’t feel quite so ominous now. Just a strange little monument to grief, and to survival.

“I’ll be off,” you called to Jon while passing his office.

He looked up, confused. “Where are you going?”

You backtracked a couple of steps. “Follow-up on the Harlow case.”

“I thought Martin was going to check that out,” he added.

You had noticed that Jon, as of late, had started assigning follow-ups solely to the others.

“He was,” you replied. “But he had to take his mother to a doctor’s appointment. Sasha is still looking for traces of that cursed book throughout half of South London. And Tim is buried in transcripts and it’s a pain in the ass to stop in the middle of that.”

He hesitated. “It might not be safe.”

“Is it ever?” You smiled.

Something in his jaw ticked, brows drawing together.

“You’re sure you’ll be alright going alone?” he asked, fingers fidgeting with his pen.

You smiled, a little too confident. “I’m a big girl, Jon.”

The address was some forgotten property in Whitechapel: classic rotting tenement structure, the kind the Council kept saying they were going to demolish, but never did. You were supposed to just check a broken window and verify the building hadn’t burned down since the original statement. Easy. Nothing alive – or dead – supposedly remained inside.

The hallways were narrow and black with grime, the ceiling weeping moisture through old plaster. The air smelled of rot and rust. You had a torch, but it barely pierced the dark.

The house was quiet. Still and wrong in the way only certain places are, that skin-prickling off that doesn’t come from anything visible. You weren’t even inside five minutes before you felt it: the sudden, crawling tension in your neck, the feeling of being watched. A whisper behind the walls.

The sound came out of nowhere, a scraping, skittering thing that danced in the edge of the beam.

And then something lunged.

The rest was a blur; frantic scrambling, a scream stuck in your throat, the sickening scrape of something sharp dragging along your arm as you turned to run. You didn’t even realise you were bleeding until you were halfway down the block, heart thundering, coat torn.

You were lucky, you kept telling yourself. It didn’t chase you. Whatever it was.

Your sleeve was soaked in blood by the time you got to the bus stop. You sat at the very back, pressing a tissue to the wound with numb fingers, thin and mostly useless. It stuck to the cut and turned red fast.

You hadn’t meant to come back to the Institute. But you needed your bag. And your charger. Then you’d go home. Clean it there. Sleep it off. Pretend none of this happened.

Your arm throbbed, the cut pulsing hot and wet beneath the tissue. It had soaked through. Twice. Your breath came shallow as you stepped through the Institute’s doors, your mind hazy with exhaustion and…was it fear? Maybe.

Your boots squeaked slightly as you moved through the hall, eyes on the floor. The Archive lights were dim, already half off for the night, and Jon’s office door was still open. Of course it was.

You were halfway past the door when his voice – clear, calm, and unexpectedly grounding – stopped you. “You’re back late,” he said. “Did the site check out?”

He was leaning in his chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pen poised in one hand. He looked up fully when you didn’t answer immediately.

You stepped in without thinking, willing yourself to walk normal. Just a moment.

You gave a shrug that was meant to be casual, your left arm stiff at your side. “Mostly. Nothing structural left, really. Weird vibes.”

He hummed, starting to turn his eyes back to his notes.

But then he blinked.

His gaze tracked down. To your coat. To the sticky, darkened fabric. To the way your hand clutched the balled-up tissue.

“Wait– what happened?” His voice shifted, sharp now. Alert. “Are you–?” Jon stood quickly. His chair scraped loudly against the wood.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly. You took a breath, tried again. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. I just came to grab my things.”

“That’s not ‘just’–” He was already circling the desk, eyes scanning you from head to toe. His hand hovered near your elbow but didn’t touch. There was a sharp shift in his posture. “What happened?” His voice was low, urgent, almost angry.

You shook your head. “I don’t know what it was. I went to check out the house, and there was something there– it came out of the wall– Jon, I’m okay–”

“You’re bleeding,” he snapped.

You flinched at his tone, and he immediately seemed to regret it. He exhaled, voice softer. “Sit down.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it again. You were tired. And he looked…concerned. Not the distant, abstract kind he sometimes wore when worried about “staff liability.” Real concern.

“Please,” he added, more gently this time. “Let me take a look.”

So you obeyed, finding a spot on his desk next to the lamp that wasn’t cluttered. You moved towards it, half sitting, half leaning against it.

Jon hovered, uncertain, as if debating whether to help guide you before pulling back. “Let me get the kit,” he muttered. You watched him disappear into the break room.

Your legs started to tremble again, and the pain was sharpening now that you were still. Your fingers tightened around the soaked tissue.

When Jon returned, it was with a small, dented metal first-aid kit clutched tightly in his hands. His expression was carved in stone, taut with quiet urgency, tense and serious. You’d seen that look when he was deep in a statement. But this time, it was for you.

“It’s really fine,” you tried, giving a weak smile. “I was just going to clean it when I got home–”

“No,” he said, flat and firm. “Take your coat off. Roll up your sleeve.”

You blinked at the sudden command in his voice. Not angry, not even irritated. Just…determined.

Your fingers trembled a little as you tugged your coat off. The inside lining peeled away reluctantly from your shirt where blood had soaked through. You hissed quietly when the fabric brushed the wound.

Jon didn’t comment, just leaned closer as you rolled up your sleeve, wincing again. The cut was long, a clean slice, but deep enough that it still leaked fresh blood, the edges red and raw.

Jon gave a slow exhale. “It’s not too deep,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Could’ve been worse.”

He clicked open the kit and began methodically setting out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and tape with careful precision. Then he paused, glancing up at you.

“Hold still, please,” he murmured, voice low and concentrated.

You nodded. Wordless. A bit dazed.

His hands were steady but gentle as he took your wrist, brushing your fingers out of the way. He leaned in, and for a moment you felt his breath, warm and soft against your skin as he examined the cut more closely. He started cleaning it, slow, careful swipes of the antiseptic. It stung. You flinched, just slightly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “It won’t take long.”

His eyes were fixed on the task. “You should’ve told me you were hurt the moment you walked in.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

He stared at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to your arm. “You’re allowed to make a fuss.”

You nodded again, but your mind wasn’t on the pain anymore. He was so close.

You watched him, your chest tight all of a sudden. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his lashes dark and long against his skin, lips pressed together. His fingers were warm where they held your arm in place. His hair had fallen forward just slightly, brushing his cheek. The world had narrowed to just this: his gentle touch, the sound of his breath, the heat building in the quiet space between you.

He applied the gauze, wrapping it snug and neat. “Please,” he said softly, “take better care of yourself.”

The earnestness in his voice nearly undid you.

You meant to say something clever, a lighthearted reply, but it came out a breathless stutter: “I– yeah, I’ll try.”

His hands lingered a second too long.

When he tied the bandage, he glanced back up again. You were already watching him. Your gaze caught his. He looked at you, startled. Blinked. Swallowed. “How does it feel?”

“Better. Thanks,” you murmured. Truth was you barely felt anything. All you could focus on was that there was something unspoken in the dark depths of his eyes.

Neither of you moved. The space between you felt impossibly small. His eyes flickered over your face, down to your lips, back up.

You didn’t dare breathe. Then, finally, softly: “Jon…” Your heart slammed against your ribs.

He leaned in. His nose brushed yours. There was a pause, a stretch of stillness so fragile it might have shattered.

His hand, still resting near your bandaged arm, flexed once as if in hesitation.

You closed the distance.

Your lips met like an exhale. It wasn’t dramatic, or rushed. It was soft, barely there at first, a brush of something fragile and new and full of everything unspoken. Soft. Tentative. Almost startled. And utterly devastating.

His lips were warm, hesitant, like someone who wasn’t used to being kissed, like he was afraid it would break you both open or he’d wake up and it would be another Archive-fueled dream. Instead, you tilted your head, felt the angle shift just right, your fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. He made a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a gasp, and leaned into you just a little more.

When you pulled back, just enough to breathe, your noses still touched. The air between you hummed with the aftershock, fragile and quiet and sacred. Your eyes opened to find his already on you. He blinked as if stunned by himself. Like he’d stepped into a memory he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

His cheeks were flushed, his mouth parted, breath uneven, ghosting against your lips. “I didn’t plan to–” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t heard before.

You swallowed, your skin hot, your mind dizzy. “I know,” you whispered. He was still so close.

He blinked again, eyes searching yours. “I shouldn’t have– I– Sorry.”

You smiled at him, hand lifting gently to brush your fingers along his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your touch. He leaned into it without thinking. “Don’t be sorry,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t be.”

He was quiet. And then, barely audible, he said, “Okay.”

You could feel the tension still wound in his frame, the deep lines around his eyes that never quite faded even when he was quiet.

Jon reached for your hand. You let him hold it.

A soft silence settled between you, the kind of stillness that only happens after something has shifted, softly and profoundly, in the way that snow settled under moonlight.

“You’re not as terrifying as you pretend to be, you know,” you whispered. It was half-teasing, but mostly true.

Jon huffed a sound that might almost be a laugh, dry, caught in the back of his throat, but real. His eyes softened.

“And you,” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse, “are far more persistent than I ever anticipated.”

You beamed at him, and something in him melted at the sight. He tentatively laced his fingers through yours.

“Thank you,” you said, though you didn’t specify what for. Maybe for patching you up. Maybe for letting you in. Maybe for not running away from this.

Jon gave a nod. It was small. But enough.

Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows, a reminder of how cold the world still was. The building creaked in its bones. The Archives remained vast and full of secrets. But here, in this small office lined with tapes, statement files, dusty books, and a jar of probably-not-ashes – with the heater humming, the heat still lingering on your lips, with him next to you – you had found warmth in the cold.